


Until Death

by Miss M (missm)



Category: J. Edgar (2011)
Genre: Canon - Movie, Life Partners, M/M, Missing Scene, Politics What Politics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Yuletide New Year's Resolutions Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Such a strange thing, love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pollitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pollitt/gifts).



> Pollitt, this was originally a piece of drawer fic I wrote to feel better after seeing the movie; I discovered when browsing the NYR prompts that it fits your request quite nicely. So I decided to tidy it up and post it as a gift for you in the collection -- hope that's all right! Thank you so much to my eminent beta reader, Kelly.

They check into the same hotel as usual, go out to the movies as usual. New York City is the same as usual, all glittering and crowded. And yet this is vitally different: it is their first vacation after Annie Hoover's death.

Sitting in the dark theater waiting for the movie to begin, Clyde glances over at Edgar, whose eyes are fixed on the screen in front of them. A muscle is working in his jaw. The seat on the other side of him is empty.

_So many years_ , Clyde finds himself thinking. And then, _How did you bear it?_

His left hand moves, almost on his own accord, over to touch Edgar's right. Just a light touch, one that could be accidental but isn't. Edgar is still for a moment, but then he responds, turning his hand over so that Clyde's fingers rest against his palm.

 

~

 

After the movie ends, they go directly out for dinner – another break from their former routine that neither of them comments upon. They are seated with a small selection of socialites, among them two single ladies for whom Edgar turns on all his charm, as he is wont to do. It's a spectacle Clyde has witnessed for years, a superficial show. In and of itself it doesn't bother him.

Now less than ever, in fact. For although he'd never tell Edgar as much, the news of his mother's death flooded him with relief, killing the last bit of the small fear that had remained in his heart for years. No more risk, now, of Edgar succumbing to his mother's will, choosing marriage over Clyde. There will be no other Mrs. Hoover in their lives.

Such a strange thing, love.

His foot is resting against Edgar's under the table, discreet and unassuming. He knows not to ask for more than Edgar is able to give, which isn't much – at least not by most people's standards. Clasped hands in the backseats of cars, going to races together, lunch, dinner. Chaste holidays in separate bedrooms, followed by a watchful matriarch.

But it's not nothing. It's far more than nothing.

It's Clyde's life, the one he chose – or rather, that was chosen for him – the day he walked into Edgar's office for the interview. Perhaps the very evening he first locked eyes with Edgar in the restaurant. Something happened, then, like a heavy drop deep inside of him, a pebble falling into water, unable not to sink. And he can still feel the ripples.

He nudges Edgar's foot, just a little, just because he can. Anyone else might think nothing of it.

"Mr. Tolson," says Edgar, turning to him. Clyde suspects he is trying to escape before one of the ladies take it into her mind to ask for a dance. "We should be heading back to the hotel, don't you think?"

To the protests of the rest of their company, they take their leave, Edgar smiling and nodding at everyone, Clyde following, as always.

 

~

 

A nightcap before going to bed: this, too, as usual. But there are only the two of them now, no Mrs. Hoover lurking beyond the walls. She was always polite to Clyde, careful to mention how useful he was to the Bureau, how much America needed upstanding citizens like him. In between words, her chilly eyes would search his face, as if sizing up an enemy. _You can have your job_ , that gaze seemed to say. _You can have your power. But you can't have my son._

Sometimes Clyde hated her. Now he finds it in his heart to pity her, a dead woman who never got to see another one take her place. No doubt she harangued Edgar about it, wanting him to marry, to keep up the façade. No doubt she wanted more grandchildren.

Clyde may be patient, he may be a loving fool, but he has his limits. If Edgar had obeyed his mother's wishes in this, he'd never have seen Clyde again. His choice, Clyde knows, makes it all worth it.

He watches Edgar now, as they sit side by side on the sofa, each of them with a drink – a rare indulgence on Edgar's part. They talk about the situation in Europe, about taxes, about the races. Sometimes Edgar falls silent; he too must remember that something has changed.

After that horrible night many years ago, they never stayed in that suite again. There was no need to discuss the matter, just like they often don't need to talk at all. A look says more than a thousand words. A touch can often express what the voice can't.

And yet, Clyde can't stop himself from longing.

He lets his arm rest on the back of the sofa, his hand almost touching Edgar's shoulder. Such things are allowed. He scoots a bit closer, looking at Edgar's face. _You belong to me,_ he thinks. _And I belong to you._

He closes his eyes. _You know this._

They've sat like this before – closer, even. Edgar finishes his drink and pours himself another one, then tops up Clyde's. He toasts him and quirks his lips. Then his smile falters.

"Clyde."

Clyde takes a sip of whiskey, making sure to swallow properly before replying. "Yes, Edgar?"

Edgar looks down. There's something more than the usual frown going on in his face, a scrunching of the mouth, a twisting of features, as if he's in a horrible inner turmoil. Clyde understands all too well. His throat tightens.

He reaches out and touches Edgar's shoulder properly. "What is it, Edgar?"

Edgar looks up abruptly, and all the pain in the world is in his eyes. "Clyde..."

His hand suddenly descends to press Clyde's where it rests on the sofa, and the shock of the touch sends ripples along Clyde's spine, the way it always has.

"She's gone, Clyde. And I am..." Edgar shakes his head. "I can't bear it."

Clyde licks his lips, where the taste of whiskey lingers. "I know, Edgar."

Another abrupt look. "You do?"

"Of course," Clyde says. His fingers wind around Edgar's, squeezing. He won't let go, now. "I see right through you, don't you remember?"

Edgar draws his breath sharply. It's the first time either of them has referred to that night in so many words. "I'm not a..."

"Pansy?" Clyde asks, summoning all his courage. Edgar's hand stiffens, but Clyde doesn't let go. "Fairy? Daffodil? No, you're not. You are J. Edgar Hoover."

There's a slow exhalation. "Yes, I am."

"You are you," Clyde says. He turns and leans in so that he can't see Edgar's face, but their cheeks are close together and he can whisper in Edgar's ear: "And I am I."

He stays like that, closing his eyes, breathing through his nose. The air is filled with the scent of Edgar's cologne, mixed with whiskey. _If I lose this_ , he thinks, _I have nothing_.

Then Edgar's free hand comes up to touch his cheek. "Clyde," he says, and now his voice is very small.

Clyde remains still, though it feels as if his nerves are coming out of his skin.

_I promised I'd never do it again_.

Edgar's breath is shuddering now, so warm and close to his face.

_I always keep my promises, especially those I made to you._

The hand moves from his cheek to curl around his neck, and Clyde draws a breath.

_You must be the one to do this, Edgar._

There's a moment in which nothing moves at all, not even time. And then Edgar presses his mouth against Clyde's, hot and trembling, and his hand around Clyde's neck is warm and sweaty, and his fingers twine around Clyde's fingers and don't let go.

 

~

 

It's a generous bed, more than spacious enough for two grown men, Clyde notes as they stumble into Edgar's bedroom, Edgar clinging to him like a drowning man. "Clyde," he gasps, over and over, and Clyde responds in the best way he can think of, kissing and kissing and kissing again, now that it's possible, now that it's allowed.

How many years has it been? he wonders dizzily as he pulls the pajama top over his head. Before the Bureau, certainly. Before Edgar and everything that mattered. Nothing that sticks now.

Desperate to taste, to touch, he starts unbuttoning Edgar's pajama top in turn, and Edgar allows it, breathing heavily and open-mouthed, eyes closed. Clyde slides a hand in between the buttons and finds skin, and Edgar's eyes fly open. "Oh, God," he moans, and that sound – that desperate moan, so unlike anything he's ever heard from Edgar's mouth before – goes straight to Clyde's groin and makes him tear at the pajama buttons like a starving man at a sack of bread.

"Careful, Clyde," Edgar admonishes, but there's nothing of the usual authority in his voice now. And Clyde doesn't reply, but presses his face against Edgar's neck and bites, not very hard, but hard enough.

As soon as they're both naked – and as close as they are, as close as they have been, Clyde has never seen Edgar naked before – they tumble down on the bed, all hungry kisses and wayward arms and legs. It's nothing like Clyde ever imagined, all those times he lay alone in his bed: in his fantasies, things have always progressed very slowly, with Edgar accepting one caress at a time, guarded, stiff, reluctant to give up control. This Edgar is almost wild, as if some force of nature has broken down all his defenses, taken him over, making his hands roam over Clyde's shoulders, chest, back, pushing all sorts of needy noises out of his mouth: "Clyde, please, Clyde," again and again.

It would be wrong to say that Clyde is in control. Neither of them are. Eleven years of withheld passion crush their bodies together, grind their hips together like clumsy boys, make Clyde push down and Edgar arch up and their mouths lock, two pieces in a puzzle. It's that pull between them – the one that's kept Clyde by Edgar's side all these years, and he'll be damned if he understands it – it's that strange, powerful tie that at last tightens another notch and sends them screaming, clinging, falling apart in each other's arms.

Afterwards, Clyde lies on his side, his leg thrown over Edgar's thighs, his arm over Edgar's chest. He feels giddy. He feels like he's drunk on the best whiskey in the world, and the intoxication will never wear off. He wants to sing, but finds that most of his voice is gone.

"No one has ever hurt me like you have," he whispers against Edgar's neck, lips moving but almost no sound coming out. "No one has ever made me as happy. I love you."

Edgar turns his head towards him. "What's that?"

Clyde smiles and shakes his head, pressing a kiss towards Edgar's shoulder. "Nothing."

But it's not nothing.


End file.
